Circadian Rhythm
by in vegas lights
Summary: After Amber died, Wilson took 2 months of leave to deal with his grief. What exactly was he doing all that time though? Wilson-centric fic. House/Wilson friendship/pre-slash, mentions of Wilson/Amber and Wilson/other.


**Title:** Circadian Rhythm

**Pairings:** House/Wilson friendship/pre-slash, mentions of Wilson/Amber and Wilson/other.

**Rating:** PG-13

**Summary:** After Amber died, Wilson took 2 months of leave to deal with his grief. What exactly was he doing all that time though? Wilson-centric fic.

**Warnings:** Major spoilers for seasons 4 and 5. Written in 2nd person POV.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Never was, never will be. If I did own _House_, those college loans would finally get paid off.

**Inspiration/AN:** This story is a culmination of me being entirely too tired one night and thinking about sleeping disorders. So, direct inspiration comes from me researching circadian rhythm sleeping disorder, hearing my history professor discuss _Fight Club_ in class, and thinking of the movie _Donnie Darko_. Put all that together and I came up with this, a very strange fic; there's no other way to describe it.

I know some people don't enjoy reading 2nd person POV so I included that as a warning. The idea came to me this way and though I tried to write it in 3rd person, it didn't sound as good. This fic is for all of my wonderful internet friends, who are oh so amazing in many ways. Thanks guys.

* * *

Wake up.

You start awake as the wheels of the plane touch down on the runway in Seattle, causing you to jolt in your seat and bang your knee on the one in front of you.

You don't remember putting your seat into an upright and locked position nor closing your tray table. Interesting.

The small window next to you gives a skewed view of the dreary skyline and gray airport terminal.

Why Seattle?

Because the almost constant rain matches your mood. And it's not New Jersey.

It's not a place you can't possibly be at or think about right now.

It's not a place where she is no longer there and everything is starting to remind you of _her_.

It's not where he still is, the one you want to hate more than anything.

But you can't hate him.

You were angry. You were so angry at _him_, because he had killed her.

He'd gone out and got drunk, and then he'd made a phone call that had changed your life forever. You'd finally found someone who was different from all the others; she'd been special and you loved her.

Now she was gone.

And you, and he, were still there.

But you didn't (couldn't) hate him. You just didn't want to think about him.

If only forgetting were as easy as stepping on a plane and leaving.

You find yourself first in a cab and then in a hotel room. It seems you're doomed to live out the greater part of your life in sterile hotel rooms.

You think you should go out and explore the city, but it's only been three days since you buried her and you can't think of much else. You barely can make yourself function.

You'd practically begged for the two months of leave, but Cuddy had been brimming with pity so really it hadn't been necessary.

"Take all the time you need" had been the last words she'd spoken to you over the phone right before you'd hung up and turned it off. You'd then curled yourself up on _her_ bed and cried yourself to sleep once more.

You'd finally decided that you could no longer stay in the apartment that reminded you of her everywhere you looked. Barely comprehending what you were doing, you'd packed a bag and hopped on the first plane out of New Jersey.

Now you were in Seattle, staring around an empty room that did nothing to soothe the numb feeling tingling throughout your body.

Where did you go from here?

**

You end up at a bar that isn't in the nicest area of the city, but it also isn't in the worst. You don't bother to check the name of the place; you simply walk in and sit down on the first available stool at the counter.

You order whisky with a side of beer. You were never one for harsh liquor, but you feel the need to get completely trashed and forget the rest of the night.

If only you could also forget the days that have led you here to this no-name bar in the middle of Seattle.

You recall ordering another whisky after the first one and then a shot of something after that. The bartender isn't stopping you so you keep going.

You don't remember much after that second shot.

It was exactly what you wanted.

**

Wake up.

Your head is pounding, your mouth is dry, and your whole body aches. You don't know how you got back to your hotel room, but here you are.

A brief sketchy memory of a cab flits across your mind before the nausea hits and you manage to stumble your way to the bathroom.

Possibly hours later your stomach finally decides to stop rebelling against the insane amount of alcohol you poured into it and you shakily walk to the sink.

Splashing water on your face, you look into the mirror, taking in your unnaturally pale features, bloodshot eyes, and lank, tousled hair.

You barely recognize yourself.

But that's exactly what you want; to not recognize yourself, to not remember yourself and the life that came with it.

You're not James Wilson anymore. You're just another nameless stranger in a city that isn't yours.

You're just like everyone else.

**

You're still awake.

You're exhausted and your mind is telling you to sleep, yet you can't. You'd fled Seattle within hours of waking up from an alcohol induced sleep.

It hadn't helped. You still remember, which meant you had to leave and try somewhere else.

You're still hung over and now irritated on top of that.

What will it take to sleep? What will it take to make this all go away?

Another plane, another city. This time you're on your way to Phoenix.

Why?

It's hot and dry and the complete opposite of Princeton.

The flight attendant's plastic smile irritates you as she hands you a cup filled with orange juice and small bottle of vodka.

You ask for a second bottle and she gives you a flirty wink.

Getting drunk (again) and feeling numb is better than feeling nothing at all.

**

Phoenix is too hot. How anyone can live in the middle of a desert is beyond you.

The sun is piercing and hurts your eyes. The heat is oppressive and stuffy.

You can't stay here; it's too much. You've barely made your way outside the airport before you turn around and buy a ticket to somewhere else.

Somewhere that's not a desert.

Screw your hotel reservations.

Within two hours you're on another plane, with another happy-go-lucky flight attendant handing you a drink.

You somehow manage to fall asleep, though how that's possible you'll never know. Sleeping on airplanes was something you could never quite master.

What feels like only ten minutes later, you're jerked out of a reoccurring dream about _him_ by the sound of the pilot's voice over the radio.

You hate that dream because it makes you feel sympathy and pity when all the emotions you want concerning him should be anger, hate, and hurt.

"Ladies and gentleman, we'll be making our final decent into Denver, Colorado shortly…"

Hello, Denver.

**

Tiny liquor bottles from the mini bar lay scattered all over the bedspread and the floor. You took every single one out, ignoring the massive amount of money you'll have to pay later and only thinking about drowning yourself in an alcoholic haze.

You're about halfway through the bottles and you're feeling pretty good. The TV is on, but your focus is shot to hell and all you want to do is sleep and forget.

Even if just for one night.

You take a sip from the glass in your hand, condensation along the sides leaking over your fingers. You tilt your head back against the wall behind you and stare down your body to the TV across from you and the mirror beyond it.

Your reflection stares back at you, but you can't bear to see yourself like this so you look back at the TV. You don't know what the program is except a tall, blonde woman is now walking across the screen.

The sound of the glass shattering as it hits the mirror startles you. Liquid streaks down the surface and the big crack in the mirror distorts the image of the room.

Or maybe that's just the tears suddenly flooding your eyes.

**

You haven't slept in three days and your eyes are bloodshot and itch constantly. You can't sleep no matter what you do though.

You close your eyes and see _her_ face as you turned off the switch on the bypass keeping her artificially alive.

You jerk your eyes open again before they slide closed against your will.

You see _his_ face as you stood in the doorway and watched him lying in the hospital bed, right before you turned and walked away.

Your eyes snap open again, but you can't forget the look on his face.

Insomnia haunts you. Sleep mocks you.

And all you're trying to do is run away.

You leave the next morning. Maybe the next city will be better.

**

You wake up to tears running down your face.

In a new city, but nothing seems to be different.

You can't even remember your dream, yet you can guess what it was about simply from the ache in your chest.

You can guess that the first part of it was you watching her die in your arms again, feeling helpless and lost because you couldn't prevent it from happening.

You can guess that the next part involved him and how _he_ died instead of her. That she had never been on that bus and he'd been alone. That because she wasn't there, he'd been injured fatally and you never got to say goodbye or…

You tangle yourself in the sheets and try to make yourself stop seeing those images that you conjured in your mind.

You hate yourself for making them up, but you hate yourself more for being glad that the reality didn't involve him dying. Maybe that's why it's so much easier to blame him instead.

Because if he _had_ died…

You cry until you have no more tears and then fall into a restless sleep.

You leave Atlanta the next morning.

**

Wake up.

Jet lag and jet hopping causes you to fall asleep from pure exhaustion. It's past three am and you're not awake again until one pm.

You open your eyes to a white ceiling and bland hotel furniture. It takes all your effort just to breathe and lie on the bed in silence.

At one time you would have cared about sleeping so late and appearing so lazy.

Now it doesn't even matter.

You can't even remember where you're at right now. For all you know you could be in Australia, halfway around the world.

Funny how your mind connects to place that would mean finally connecting to _him_.

You roll over and reach for a hotel pamphlet on the nightstand, looking for a city name.

Saint Louis.

There's no pattern to your wandering. It seems though that you're determined to visit every city in the continental US at least once before your two month leave is up.

One month down, one to go. Anything is possible.

**

The night you wake up reaching across the bed, but find nothing except air and cold sheets is the night you realize how sick you are of feeling lonely.

You look toward the standard hotel issued alarm clock, the one with large red numbers that read 11:34 pm.

Bars are still open. Anything is possible.

You get up and get dressed mechanically, not thinking ahead, just doing.

You leave and don't come back until you find a person as desperate as you. You're both completely trashed and can hardly walk, but it doesn't matter.

You want to feel something other than empty.

There's a blur of hands and mouths and skin. You pass out satisfied, thinking you'll finally get some sleep.

You wake up to an empty yet messy bed. Your memory of the night before is hazy and fragmented.

And the empty feeling has only gotten worse.

**

Saint Louis is as bad as everywhere else you've been so far, so you're on another plane and gone before the afternoon is over.

You'd stood in front of a screen with the listing of flights and destinations, choosing the first one out; Portland, Oregon.

Like Seattle, but not. Another place that was located on the other side of the country.

Another place to get lost and maybe find yourself.

Except…except what?

You've been searching for nearly two months now and you're no closer to finding what you can't even name.

Maybe the answer is in Portland.

Most likely it's not.

It's just another destination on this insane journey.

**

Another warm body fills your bed on the road to…something. Another nameless stranger who views you in the same exact way.

It's so easy to slip out and walk away without a word when neither of you actually care.

Why do you keep doing this to yourself though? What purpose does it actually serve?

You can't know for sure (or maybe you just don't want to acknowledge the truth), but at least it allows you to sleep for a couple hours.

At least it allows you to think about the present and not the past or the future.

Looking back scares you and looking forward leaves you unsteady.

The present is easiest. You don't have to think, you just let it happen. But it can't give you what you're searching for.

Unfortunately the answer lies ahead of you. If only you could find it and figure out what it is.

**

You're in Chicago when Blythe House calls you. Standing on a sidewalk, you answer your cell phone and listen as Blythe talks in jumbled words to you.

"John…John died," she manages to say.

You freeze and somehow, despite your fumbling, you don't drop your phone.

All you can manage to think is _Oh House_. You promised yourself not to care, but that was a lie the moment you thought it.

The rest of the conversation is a blur, but you're able to figure out that House refuses to go and somehow you need to get him there.

Why you?

You don't know why, but you find yourself on the first plane out of Chicago heading toward New Jersey. You call Cuddy before takeoff; you don't plan on seeing House or getting involved beyond what you're doing now.

Things never go exactly how you plan though. You should realize this by now.

And why get on a plane back to Princeton unless you _want_ to see him?

It scares you to think that you barely have control over your actions anymore.

When it comes to House though, you've always lost control.

You fall asleep somewhere over Ohio and don't wake up until you're back in Princeton.

**

You're sucked back in.

The man is like quicksand; every time you try to escape him, he always brings you back somehow.

It angers you, yet you thrill to be near him again. You hardly touch him though because then this would become a reality.

And you need your fiction for just a little longer.

House is too worried in making sure you won't disappear to notice your odd motions around him. He's too fixated on the fact that you're actually _here_; nothing else matters to him.

The attention is almost suffocating, yet you need the reassurance as much as he does.

Because he was right, like he always is. Losing him is something that would break you beyond repair.

And losing Amber taught you that losing House would be a hundred times worse.

"Are you…are you staying tonight?" House questions, eyes downcast and voice stilting in a way that makes you uncomfortable.

This isn't the House you left. Why would it be?

"Yeah. I missed your couch."

House smiles because he understood what you meant.

_I missed you._

**

You wake up on a familiar couch. Beer bottles lie haphazardly on the coffee table only feet away and sunlight streams through the parted curtains. There's the sound of the tap dripping from the kitchen, but other than that, silence greets your ears.

It's during the time when you come into awareness of your surroundings that you realize something. It's so blatantly obvious that you start to laugh while choking back a sob.

It took coming back to House to finally make you sleep (normally) through the whole night.

Every plane trip, every nameless face, every moment in the past two months had only brought you back to where you'd started. The answer had been in front of you all along, yet you'd been too blind, too stubborn to see it.

"I don't think we can even choose our friends" are the words you'd spoken to him. Those were the words he accepted.

What you really meant to say was "We can't choose who makes us feel safe. We can't choose who we love."

You never chose to love House, but it had happened.

It was finally time to stop running.

* * *


End file.
